Authors: ADAM L PENENBERG
Summer made sure no one was listening, and then in a hissy whisper said, “This is a capital case. If you don’t start doing what I tell you, it’s not going to be a question of you living with yourself. It’ll be a question of you dying alone.”
SK offered Summer a mock laugh. “You don’t engender much confidence. You’ve won one case.”
“The last two times I went down to the jail, you refused to see me.”
“I had nothing to say to you.”
“Then why keep me? Why not file a Marsden?”
SK looked at the ceiling and sighed. “We share something in common.”
Summer stared at her client’s profile: the thick red ringlets brushing her ears, her deep green eyes, the freckles raindropped onto worn cheeks, and sensed the tremor of tension beneath her client’s composure. SK was expending enormous energy just keeping herself together.
Summer’s eyes stung. “Yes, we do. But you’re running out of time. If you don’t want to try and save yourself for you, do it for the women like us. What will happen to them if you’re convicted without your even putting up a legitimate legal challenge? What kind of impact will your life, and your work, have then?”
SK shot Summer a bitter look.
Hightower gave the word, and Sprague shepherded twelve prospectives into the jury box, where they awaited his queries. The judge sat regal but pale. Summer had seen him on TV at a fundraiser for cystic fibrosis the night before, pumping hands, slapping backs, pandering for votes; the race against Raines for the bench was close. Hightower wasted no opportunity to get out on the campaign trail.
He spoke into a microphone. “Testing, test—” There was squeaky feedback until Sprague adjusted the controls. “Can you all hear me? Good. We are gathered here today to bring this man and woman together in holy matrimony.”
He was greeted by shocked silence. Then he smiled and said, “Gotcha.”
The jury pool and members of the press broke into laughter. Summer sat in silence. She had heard Hightower’s shtick before.
“Thank you for attending,” he said. “We’ll be questioning you in groups of twelve. The rest of you, please remain silent.” He turned to the twelve people in the jury box and asked, “Do any of you feel that you cannot render an impartial verdict in this case?”
A smattering of hands went up. Some judges would automatically have excluded them, but Hightower rarely exempted panelists: his view was that as a judge he had a responsibility to make sure that no one should be able to skip out from their civic duty. But the real reason was that since Haze County was Law and Order U.S.A., and any pool of jurors was bound to share these sentiments, the fewer exemptions he offered meant the more exemptions the defense wasted. Since many trials were won or lost at jury selection, this contributed to Hightower’s high conviction rate.
The judge consulted a seating chart. “Mr. Andrews?”
A man with a 30-something face, a 40-something body, and bone-white 50-something hair stood, struggling to pull his jeans over his belly.
Hightower told him to sit, then asked, “What is it that could prevent you from judging this case fairly?”
Andrews absently fingered a pack of cigarettes straining against his shirt pocket. “My brother’s a policeman. I know they don’t arrest somebody less they know they got the right guy.”
“But is there any reason you couldn’t weigh the evidence, give the defendant a fair trial? Remember: In our country, someone is innocent until proven guilty.”
“That’s the law all right,” Andrews said, “but I think if the police arrest you, you’re guilty. I’m a taxpayer. I think the guy on trial should prove their innocence.”
“Ah, the Napoleonic code.” Hightower forced a smile. Even now, Summer realized, he was campaigning. “Unfortunately, Mr. Andrews, our law states otherwise. Let me ask you again. Could you be fair and impartial, follow the rules that have been set forth?”
“I got a business. I’m a private contractor. I don’t work, I don’t eat.”
The judge scratched an ear and waited.
Andrews, wheezing like steamed heat, shifted in his chair, finally saying, “Yeah, I could be fair, impartial, follow the laws, whatever.”
The judge massaged his knuckles. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Andrews,” he said, and moved on to the next prospective juror.
Summer, working from a grid, made a note to strike Andrews. She only had ten such challenges, ten opportunities to shape the jury.
SK tugged on Summer’s sleeve. “When do we get to question them?”
Summer leaned close, gently placing her hand on SK’s shoulder, not only to keep their conversation private but to show the assembled that there was nothing to fear. “During
voir dire
, judges have the option to question jurors themselves or let the lawyers do it,” Summer whispered. “Judge Hightower likes to keep a tight lid on things, so he questions the jury pool. It certainly speeds up jury selection. We may be able to get through it in one long day. And it could work to our advantage.”
“How?”
“The legislature gave judges this power because too many defense attorneys were trying their cases before the jury pools. It was intended as a sop to the prosecution, but it often works to the advantage of the defense. Judges aren’t as good at weeding out the artichokes, the assorted nuts and crazies who, if not carefully questioned, can turn twelve-oh into eleven-one.”
“You’re going for a hung jury?”
Summer tapped her fingers on her state law handbook. “I’m going for anything I can get.”
Hightower held up his seating chart to the light. “Mrs. Rye... Rah-Gee—”
Summer keyed in on a tangy twang from the back row. “It’s pronounced
Rah-shay
, but spelled R-a-s-i-e-j,” a busty, polyester-clad woman said. Her hair was bleached and teased; on her lips, she wore talc-white lipstick. Second-generation trailer-park trash, Summer thought. She could almost smell the hair spray.
“Excuse me, Ms. Rasiej,” Judge Hightower said.
“Mrs.,” she corrected.
“Excuse me,
Mrs.
Rasiej. Do you feel you can’t be objective?”
“That’s what I’m saying, Your Honor. I have a lot of trouble with those kinds of people.”
Hightower rubbed his chin thoughtfully . “Do you personally know Ms. Killington?”
“Only from the TV.”
“I see. Well, this is as good a time as any to tell you all that you are ordered to ignore anything you’ve seen or heard through the media. Now, what kind of people are you referring to?”
“My husband says she’s a—a lesbian,” Rasiej articulated with distaste. “That goes against the word of God.”
There were some hisses from the visitors’ gallery. Hightower immediately made use of his gavel. “Quiet back there or I’ll clear the court of spectators.”
When he had commanded full attention, he grunted, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, but Mrs. Rasiej, if Ms. Killington is a lesbian, and I’m not saying she is, but if she were, it wouldn’t matter one whit in my courtroom. We are gathered here to determine whether Ms. Killington is guilty of breaking our laws, not God’s law.”
“It’s all one and the same to me,” Rasiej said.
Ignoring Raines’s sniggling grin, Summer stood and addressed the court. “Your Honor, I request a sidebar.”
“Request denied, Ms. Neuwirth.”
Summer settled back into her chair. She could feel SK’s rage over not being able to set the record—or her sexual preference—straight. She put her hand around SK’s shoulder, but realizing the message it was sending, quickly removed it. She could hear a man next to Rasiej hiss, “She ain’t no lez-bean. She was married.”
Rasiej talked back. “Is that so?”
Summer thought,
Yeah, to an abortion doctor. So long, Rasiej
. She crossed her off her list.
Hightower worked his gavel. “That is quite enough of this. Do not talk unless—”
He was interrupted by a demonstration. A half-dozen women stood, holding placards—“Free SK from the Fatherland” and “No Justice, No Peace” were two that stuck in Summer’s mind—and chanted, “Fuck the system! Fuck the system!” Summer wondered how they had been able to sneak them into court undetected.
Hightower shouted, “If you do not cease this moment, I will hold you in contempt of court!”
Summer detected the shadow of a grin crossing SK’s face. “Did you know about this?” she asked over the din.
SK’s eyes were luminescent, but she didn’t say anything.
Hightower exploded. “Bailiffs! Get them out of here
now!
”
When Sprague and Patterson moved down the aisle to round up the protesters, the women, obviously expert in the techniques of civil disobedience, went limp and crumpled to the ground, continuing their chant. Unable to handle more than one at a time, Sprague had to call for backup.
Summer was fuming. “Don’t you see what damage this is doing to our case? You’ve done more to turn the jury pool against you than a hundred tabloid stories.”
“They’re going to convict me anyway,” SK said matter-of-factly.
“If you’re so sure of that, then why not plead guilty now and get it over with? Why put yourself through a trial?”
SK didn’t say anything. The protestors continued their cries. Everybody seemed to be talking at once.
Aware that all attention was on the disturbance, Summer grabbed SK’s wrist. SK responded by bending Summer’s thumb back, but stopped when Summer said, “You’re a coward, Stephanie Killington. If you want to die a martyr, then fine, you win. We’ll get you another attorney. But that will be your only victory.”
Summer let go of SK and snatched her State Penal Code handbook from the table. She threw it into her briefcase and got up to leave. “I don’t need this bullshit. I’ve represented glue sniffers with more sense than you.”
SK grabbed Summer’s arm and pulled her down in her chair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let this happen without telling you first.”
“You shouldn’t have let this happen period,” Summer said. “You’ve already shot yourself in the foot with this jury pool. Are you scared to fight them in court? Do you think you can win with pyrotechnics like this? It may give you satisfaction, but it’s the fastest way to end up on death row.”
SK shut her eyes and bit her bottom lip. “You’re right,” she said after a moment of reflection. “But show me something, Summer. Show me we can win. Give me something to hang my hopes on. Anything. If you can do that, I’ll do whatever you say.”
Summer was still reeling with anger. She heard herself heaving breaths. “If you ever pull anything like this again, I’ll drop you so hard you’ll hit escape velocity without even leaving your cell.”
More bailiffs busted in. It took five minutes to clear the protestors out. When order had been restored, the tension in the room was so tight you could strum it. Hightower, eyes and face scarlet, looked out on the remaining spectators and said with uncontained aggravation, “If any of you even so much as yawn in my court, I will bar all visitors.”
Summer stood. “Your Honor. May I approach the bench?”
Hightower shook his head. “Not if you’re going to ask the court to provide a new jury pool. I am not going to send these people home just because some hecklers tried to infect my court with their agenda.”
Although she knew there was no chance of changing his mind, Summer offered Hightower an incredulous smile. “But Your Honor—”
“That will be all, Ms. Neuwirth. Now, Mrs. Rasiej. I believe we were discussing the issue of fairness.”
“Yes, sir,” Rasiej said. “And now that I know the score, I think I can be fair.”
“Splendid, Ms. Rasiej,” Hightower said with plastic courtliness.
Even without looking Summer could see Raines’s dreamy smile. Fifteen minutes into jury selection, protestors had sabotaged SK’s case, and already Summer would be forced to waste two peremptory challenges.
It was a grueling process. By the time court broke for lunch, Summer had gone through four more, striking a woman with a thick Cantonese accent she was sure would have trouble processing testimony, a man in the National Guard, a retired minister, and a skinhead. Raines used up four of his exemptions on the few minorities the judge had questioned—two Hispanic women and two of the five Blacks present.
In the afternoon, after Raines had dismissed his third black prospective juror, Summer set her strategy in motion. “Your Honor,” she said, “I request the court be cleared.”
Hightower nodded. He checked his watch. “I think it’s time the jury pool got a break. Take fifteen minutes to get a cup of coffee, relax. We’ll call you when we need you.”
When the court was empty, save for the judge and bailiffs, Summer, SK, Raines, the press, and some spectators, Summer addressed the court. “I have no choice but to motion for a Wheeler objection, Your Honor. Mr. Raines has struck three of only five African-Americans. It’s clear he’s basing these objections on the basis of their race.”
For a change, Raines was calm. Which meant he was confident, almost cocky, Summer thought. “Preposterous,” he said matter-of-factly. “I struck the first man, Mr. Starks, because he said he’d a bad experience with the police. And I excluded the second, Ms. Griffey, because she didn’t give me the impression that she was paying attention. And the third, Mr. Roberts, why, he wouldn’t make eye contact with me. And I never sit someone on a jury who won’t make eye contact with me.”